


Time's The Charm

by sirius



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirius/pseuds/sirius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic was written in 2006 and includes explicit sexual content.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Time's The Charm

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [时光的魔力](https://archiveofourown.org/works/439313) by [fiammanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiammanda/pseuds/fiammanda)



> This fic was written in 2006 and includes explicit sexual content.

_From: Yukimura Seiichi  
To: Atobe Keigo_

_Subject: A little proposal..._

_Seeing as Seigaku won the Nationals this year and I'm sure Hyotei are as keen to get them back as Rikkai are, I thought I'd propose a little match. As competitive as the term 'friendly' will allow — I'll have to get this past Sakaki-sensei and Ryuzaki-sensei._

_What about a doubles match involving the best players in the district? Two of us from Rikkai taking on you and perhaps Tezuka, of Seigaku? After the close of the tournament, I've been itching to pick up my racket again — and, admittedly, to play Tezuka again. I'm confident that you feel the same way regarding Sanada._

_Let me know what you think; I'm sure that Hyotei will be intrigued by this challenge. Unless you've let yourselves go since the quarter-final stage..._

_Seiichi._

 

Atobe pushes his chair back from the table and regards the e-mail with the sort of face he normally reserves for spam mail. He'd suspected that Yukimura could outdo him on arrogance but this is something else. A few replies come to mind:

 

_From: Atobe Keigo  
To: Yukimura Seiichi_

_Re: A little proposal..._

_Unfortunately, no matter how much the French peasants demanded, King Louis XVI would never come down from his throne and meet them._

_Atobe._

_From: Atobe Keigo  
To: Yukimura Seiichi_

_Re: A little proposal..._

_If Sanada wants me in his bed that badly, he'll ask himself._

_Atobe._

_From: Atobe Keigo  
To: Yukimura Seiichi_

_Re: A little proposal..._

_Stick your team up your ass._

_Atobe._

Let's face it, he thinks. Hyotei are Hyotei. They're in tennis to play tennis, not to indulge in charity or soul-bonding with other teams. Junior Senbatsu is different; its a parade of one's own skill, a chance to beat a hundred other players all at once. It has nothing to do with sitting in a circle wearing name badges, clapping hands all in unison. Atobe hates feeling that he should be friends with his rivals, the way Seigaku are. Schooling Ryoma for Tezuka, that was bad enough, but this? He rests his fingers on the keys, trying to word a polite but cold rejection, when Tezuka's name springs up from the e-mail. There are a lot of things that Atobe will do for Tezuka. Put up with cap-wearing brats. Scrape his knee and dirty-up his best gym shorts. Wear impossibly tiny gym shorts in the first place. Whether he's man enough for this is enough question. He taps on the keys, irritably, and then constructs a response.

 

_From: Atobe Keigo  
To: Yukimura Seiichi_

_Re: A little proposal..._

_Since it's the summer, there's nothing to do and you're not Fudomine, I'll accept your challenge. I would hope that given our performance in America, you won't be placing Sanada and I alongside each other. I am not as enthused with the guy as you seem to think I am — perhaps you're confusing me with yourself._

_Let me know further details as they're arranged. I'll contact Sakaki-sensei._

_As for 'friendly' — Seiichi, this is Hyotei you're dealing with. Do you want to rethink that a little?_

_Keigo._

 

Without tennis as an excuse, he hasn't seen Tezuka for a month. It's irritating. He's made many phone calls, inviting Tezuka on various intellectual pursuits that he thinks he'd enjoy, but Tezuka has a tendency to hang up on him and so he gets nowhere. He wonders how Inui manages it; he saw them together in a book store once, but that could have been a chance meeting. They've played matches here and there as those are the only meetings Tezuka will agree to, but he refuses when Atobe proposes them too often and besides, he has his brat for that sort of thing. No matter how much Atobe grunts and makes sure that his t-shirt rises over his belly, Tezuka never bats an eyelid. It's like he stubbornly refuses to see tennis as sexual. Meaning that Atobe has played all of his aces and is, for once in his life, totally stuck. He hopes fervently that Tezuka agrees to the doubles match. They'll have to get together to arrange strategy, analyse their opponents, practice. Tezuka will finally have to come to his bedroom without having a nose-bleed. A little smirk playing on Atobe's face, he presses send with dignified glee.

\---

_From: Yukimura Seiichi  
To: Tezuka Kunimitsu_

_Subject: A little proposal..._

_Cutting straight to the point (I know that you appreciate the succinct): I haven't been able to get our match out of my head. I would be honoured if you would give me another chance to see you in action. I propose a doubles match between the finest in the region; humbly I propose myself and Sanada Genichirou of Rikkai, Atobe Keigo of Hyotei and yourself. I hear that Echizen is in America, much to my disappointment._

_I felt it best to suggest this friendly whilst school is out and to give us all something productive to do in these long months. If your summer studies allow, please do consider this challenge and let me know your thoughts._

_Seiichi._

_From: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
To: Yukimura Seiichi_

_Re: A little proposal..._

_Your challenge sounds noble and I would be honoured to participate. Ryuzaki-sensei and I have spoken about it and she agrees that a friendly would build good team relations. Perhaps we could invite members of our respective teams to witness the event? I know that Seigaku are quite curious about it._

_I assumed that yourself and Sanada would be playing together after this year's American tournament but let me know the precise arrangement._

_Tezuka._

 

“I,” Yukimura says loftily, collapsing onto his bed. “am a genius.”

Sanada studies him warily, unsure of how he should proceed. “I've always said as much.”

“Better than Niou.”

“Certainly.”

“Better even than The Riddler, from Batman.”

“You...who?”

“Never mind.”

“Ah.”

“They have both accepted.”

Sanada's eyes narrow. “I knew Tezuka would, but Atobe?”

“Yes, Atobe has accepted.”

“He's so stubborn.”

“I find that he's much like you, actually. If you know how to handle him, he's fine.”

Sanada blinks and then casts Yukimura a look. “How do you handle him?”

“There's no need for jealousy, Genichirou. Just making an observation.”

“I...well. Sorry.”

“He responds well to challenge and confrontation. He has pride and he is loathe to go beneath it, unless there's an incentive. He wants to be the best and so arranges his rivals in a stepping-stone fashion; he has made a big stone out of Tezuka. You are similar in that respect.”

“Tezuka is a very good player.”

“Atobe wants to get into his pants.” Yukimura is sliding his own hand into the waistband of Sanada's. Sanada is doing his best not to be thinking or talking about Atobe as he does so.

“I did not need to know that.”

“It's obvious. The way he is around him. He was concerned that you wanted Tezuka, too — that's why he challenged you.”

“This is far, far too much, I think, I, unnfff.”

Yukimura's voice is syrupy as he leans over, wraps a hand around Sanada's cock. “You think _unnff_?”

“Yes,” Sanada breathes. “It's really the only suitable feeling, at this point.”

Yukimura laughs and the cock in his hand twitches, and this makes Yukimura smirk, harden a little himself. It's pleasing, to be this powerful. Having had quite enough of talking about other people, he raises himself up on hands and knees and crawls over Sanada, dipping his head down for a kiss. Sanada kisses with vulnerability and trepidation and when he warms up and his tongue presses out, it makes Yukimura want to roll him over right there. He's patient because he has to be, but he can't resist a bit of cheek and so he pushes downwards, stretches out and slowly rubs the length of his groin against Sanada's. Their kiss chokes, then, and Sanada's eyes widen and then, then he pushes back and their eyes all close tight. Though he'd be quite content for that to happen again and again and again, Yukimura pulls back because he wants it to be more — he wants to fuck him, and Sanada's eyes say the same. He scrapes fingers around Sanada's waistband and yanks his jogging bottoms down, nibbling his hipbone as he does so — something he knows Sanada would hate from anyone else but loves because it's Yukimura doing it. There's teeth marks when he pulls back and he loves the sight of it, catching Sanada's face in his hands and kissing him until neither of them can breathe. Sanada gets braver gradually, running hands down spine and then, tentatively, onto his ass. This makes Yukimura laugh, the timid suggestion.

“You can top me only when you've learnt to ask for it, Genichirou,” he says wickedly, in Sanada's ear. “Until then...”

Sanada growls at him, forcing the red from his face and grasping his hips tight. He pulls down, none-too-gently, and squares his jaw into Yukimura's steady look.

“That's not topping me,” Yukimura says, lightly. “I could wriggle on you so hard you'd come on my thigh. Here, lube,” Leaning into the bedside table, he rests the tube on Sanada's tummy. “Let me see you.”

Sanada is pissed off, horny-pissed off, and rougher with himself than he normally is. Yukimura finds that especially delicious and to spur Sanada on, gives his cock a few indulgent strokes, his mouth a few indulgent gasps. Yukimura takes the tube from him, finds a condom, lubes up and wishes it didn't feel quite so dangerously good. Takes a few breaths leaning over him, kissing and nibbling the line from ear to jaw. Sanada's hands are at his shoulder blades, they slide down to his hips and they're tugging, and Yukimura can't resist the last call. Stroking Sanada's thighs apart he slides between them with the elegance of a cat and he puts his hands down on either side of him. The first cry is strangled, because he never manages to remember the intensity that the first push gives him, and Sanada always sounds strangled then, too. He has to force himself to stop and give him time because all of his instincts are going to be painful for Sanada, and he distracts himself by suckling hard on the spot beneath his collarbone until it's painted bright red. Sanada has a hand in his hair, then, and his hips are starting to move and so Yukimura moves and then they're making strangled sounds again. Hanging onto each other, their voices are gritty and needy and good.

Yukimura always gets carried away while he's having sex, Sanada has noticed. It's the same when he plays; he slips into a state somewhere that carries him away and makes him bigger and better and perfect, and it's the same in sex. He finds his rhythm and his passion and his eyes glaze and he's just achingly perfect. Sanada likes to watch him find that state, as easy as he finds the spot in Sanada that makes his toes curl up with every thrust. It doesn't take long — soon he's into that rhythm they like and his eyes lid, and _there_ , he's consumed by it all. His hands yank on the sheets before they find Sanada's and before he knows it, they're pressing his hands down onto the bed. It changes the angle, slightly, makes everything feel a little helpless to him, and he loves it. Yukimura dips his head into the curve of his neck where Sanada can feel all of his breath and his restraint and he kisses there, rough, biting kisses that betray need and fervour. He pushes back against him, curling his legs around the small of his back, urging him deeper and harder and hotter. He uses his chin to lift Yukimura's head up and then he kisses him, hard, on the lips. They look at each other for a moment as Yukimura lets out the first cry and then the game is on — they make more noise than the zoo when they're in the mood. Sanada's quieter but only because Yukimura drowns him out. His hands start to skitter on Sanada's, fluttering because he's close and soon the nails come out and that's all Sanada needs, really. His body goes taut and his mind whitens of everything and then he shouts, just once, and Yukimura's chin taps his jaw and his breath fill his ear. Yukimura doesn't shout, it's not him. He makes a sound that's like winning a match, that victory cry, and if Sanada could come again he would. Then, there's only breath until their heads stop pounding and the world stops spinning and the room comes back into focus.

Yukimura collapses on top of him because he's vulnerable after an orgasm the way he is nowhere else. Sanada takes advantage of the moment and loops his arms around his back.

“Don't make me play with anyone else,” he breathes.

“What do you think I am?” Yukimura laughs, turning his head and resting it, sweat-soaked, on Sanada's shoulder. “Stupid?”

\---

_From: Atobe Keigo  
To: Tezuka Kunimitsu_

_Hahahahaha, finally, FINALLY, you have to go somewhere with me, YES, this day, it is mine, oh glorious glorious day, what has Oresama done to deserve this?_

_Prepare to have your ass yoi'd._

_Keigo._

It is the sixteenth e-mail that Atobe has written and not sent, and he is getting desperate. At least this one is honest. He quibbles over the usage of 'ass' (too gay?) before he deletes the lot. The idea of Tezuka calling him Oresama makes him feel sick. It was a title created in a moment of madness with Sakaki-sensei, and neither of them had banked on the effect it'd have on the sub-regulars. Not to mention Atobe's female peers. Everywhere he goes, there's another simpering little girl cooing 'Oresama, Oresama!' at him and he wonders, what's wrong with his name? Even his father doesn't use his first name, and he gave it to him. As he's grown up, Atobe has realised that even he hasn't enough money to make circumstances less pathetic than they are. He's lucky to have his friends; the Ryou that swears at him when he's being theatrical, the Yuushi that complains about the Atobe family dinners, who insists that haute cuisine isn't proper eating. The Gakuto who takes him to places where he's considered wearing trainers, he's so afraid of putting his shoes on the floor. Perhaps this is why he likes Tezuka — because Tezuka is one of those real people who doesn't care about money, doesn't care about notoriety. He has to earn Tezuka's respect, and it isn't done with money. He doesn't know too many people like that and it's refreshing. Eventually, grunting frustration, he taps out a simple three lines and sends it before he's had a chance to change his mind.

 

_From: Atobe Keigo  
To: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
Subject: The tennis friendly._

_I thought that we might meet up and talk strategy — you have played Yukimura, I Sanada. Risking sounding like your data man, we should analyse the data. I promise that it won't include dinner or anything that might offend your delicate sensibilities. Coffee, then?_

_Keigo._

 

Tezuka reads the e-mail and narrows his eyes. It takes him twenty-five minutes to come up with a reply, and he doesn't know why it should take so much longer than his other e-mails.

 

_From: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
To: Atobe Keigo  
Re: The tennis friendly._

_Coffee sounds fine. We should put in practice afterwards. Dinner would not be appropriate — we should probably not indulge with the match so close. 2pm tomorrow?_

_Kunimitsu._

_From: Atobe Keigo  
To: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
Re: The tennis friendly._

_2pm is fine. I'll meet you at our grounds; you remember the way?_

_Was the suggestion of dinner carelessness on my part? Did I let my guard down?_

_Keigo._

 

There is no reply. “Fuck,” Atobe says, with feeling. It's two jokes too many for Tezuka, apparently.

\---

When he's sitting in Hyotei's nearby coffee shop with his notes, Atobe can't remember feeling this nervous. Not even when he watched his first girlfriend remove her skirt and then her bra, in his bedroom when he was fourteen. Tezuka looks utterly transfixed, studying the scribbles on the page and comparing them with his own thoughts. Atobe taps with his fingers and stirs his tea, wondering what he has to do to make it clear to Tezuka that this is more than tennis, to him. Tezuka hasn't said anything about the jokes and Atobe supposes that he just doesn't understand — Tezuka can be spectacularly obtuse in social situations. It's good, because he's spectacularly competent everywhere else and perfection would make Atobe irritable. He watches as Tezuka makes little circles with his pen and draws all sorts of lines, and wants to grab the paper from him and write:

Tezuka -----------> Atobe's bed ^__________^

He cranes his neck over, and what Tezuka's actually written isn't even close. He's written something about Yukimura and Sanada's harmony being the main problem to combat, and written GP in big letters in the margin. He's probably thinking of bringing Oishi into it. Atobe doesn't mind Oishi, but he isn't conducive to his great mission, and so, feeling idiotic, he asks Tezuka what he's devised.

“Well,” Tezuka says, as if preparing himself to say a lot of words at once, “The biggest problem is that they're on the same team and know each other very well, and we-”

“Could get to know each other very well, ahhnn?”

“Yes, but we need to be realistic about the fact that they'll have natural harmony that is difficult to create in a short space of time. I was thinking that Ootori-san and Shishido-san on your side, and our Golden Pair might be useful sources of information to tap into-”

“Yes, true,” Atobe says, contemplating how anything can go so wrong in such a short space of time. “I think it might be useful to get out there and practice. With two strong singles players, often the best course is to let them work out their own harmony. I heard that your Echizen and Momoshiro-”

“That isn't something I'd like us to use as inspiration.”

“Oh, come on. I thought the 'Ah-Un' pair were quite innovative.”

“Hm,” Tezuka says, taking a sip of his tea. “Not against Yukimura and Sanada.”

“Well, you talk to your doubles teams, get some tips, but mine forged a way to work together after lots of practice and I believe that it's the best way. I am committed to put in as much time as is necessary.” He flashes him a brilliant smile, leaving nothing to the imagination. Tezuka looks slightly taken-aback but nods, warmly, and makes a couple more circles on his page. It's not much, but it's a start. By the end of the day, Atobe is thankful for it. It's the one thing that will stop him throwing himself out of the window.

The practice is not good. This is how he will describe it to Sakaki-sensei later, leaving out the part where 'not good' means 'worse than Gakuto and Oshitari'. It's a repeat of the American tournament  
all over again — Tezuka is a dogged singles player. It's difficult for each of them to step back and let the other take a shot, and as a result, two of Hyotei's sub-regulars pulvarise them and Atobe dies a little inside. They look at each other in the changing rooms, afterwards, and Atobe thinks that if he could just reach out and kiss him, it wouldn't be a day wasted, only Tezuka stands a little way away when he has his shirt off. He's awkward, half-naked. Still growing into himself.

“We need to practice more,” Atobe says, for once thinking about what'll happen if they lose 6:0.

“Yes,” Tezuka says, firmly. His voice is solid where he isn't. It's the secret to his success. “It will get better. We need to try hard and find the knack.”

There are places where that sounds fun to Atobe, only Tezuka doesn't seem to be thinking of them.

“Tomorrow, we might take on someone from Seigaku?”

“I could give Oishi a call. He's offered his-”

“Yes, that sounds fine.” Atobe is clipped, not wanting to know about what, exactly, Oishi has offered. Tezuka doesn't notice because he's folding his shirt away and he folds shirts with more care than he shows when he talks to people. Frustrated and feeling like a bear with a sore head, Atobe simply says, “Give me a call later and tell me what the arrangements are.” He'll have a shower in his room, he thinks, so he just leaves. Tezuka notices that, he feels the eyes on his back, but Tezuka doesn't know what to make of it. It's no surprise to Atobe that nobody follows him out.

\---

The following day is worse. Tezuka regards him with frostiness and Atobe supposes that's deserved. He feels like he's being a petulant child, and Tezuka an overly-responsible adult. Atobe has enough responsibility in his life without dealing with Tezuka's morals on top of it all. He supposes that a large part of him is rebelling against nothing; against a brick wall, Tezuka's brick wall. All in all, it makes him feel shitty and Tezuka doesn't look too happy, either. They play a terrible match against Oishi and Eiji, the former of whom looks concerned throughout and almost gives himself a mouth ulcer chewing on his lip. Tezuka dismisses it with some sort of soft instruction that Atobe watches, feels a pang for, and they leave at the end — Oishi politely telling Atobe that it's been nice to see him. Eiji waves with just enough cheek that it reminds Atobe of Gakuto. He smiles, despite himself.

“That was not good,” Tezuka says, and it snaps him out of it. “We must practice more.”

“It won't help,” Atobe says, logically, “if it's just going to happen this way, again and again. Look, let's go and get a drink or something. I think we can sort it out.”

Tezuka looks reluctant to leave the court, unsure how anything not involving tennis will help. Atobe looks him straight in the eye. “Look, Sanada and I worked this out mid-game. I know how to do it. Come with me. If you want to win this match, come with me.”

Tezuka does, and Atobe is slightly pissed. He shouldn't have added the condition. The only place open near Seigaku is a dreadful burger restaurant that Momo apparently frequents and they perch on stools, sucking soft drinks.

“Right,” Atobe says. “The problem is that we're two singles players.”

Tezuka gives him a _really?!_ face. Only he does it without moving much and Atobe finds it sort of wondrous, forcing the smile from his face.

“We're playing like two singles players. I don't like the idea of just dividing the court in two. I think it works if you've not got time to sort something else out, but I think we're better than that. We're good singles players. We could be great at doubles. We just have to work out where we're different.”

“Where your specialty is, and where mine is.”

“Exactly.”

They sit in silence for a while. “We're both all-rounders,” Atobe says, dismally.

“Yes.”

“You play with both hands?”

“Yes. Primarily my left.” Tezuka rattles his paper cup and the ice clunks.

“I play with my right.”

“That's...something.”

“Something.”

More silence. “Perhaps the drawing the line down the court thing might work, after all.” Atobe says.

“No,” Tezuka says, determined in the face of the puzzle. “There must be something.”

“If we haven't thought of anything in the next, say, two days, we go with dividing the court?”

Tezuka nods, seriously. Atobe feels the brevity of it — losing doesn't sit well with him, and he'd optimistically believed that once they'd spent time together, harmony wouldn't be long waiting on them. Ironically, it seems that they're too similar. They both move for the same shots at the same time, in the same way. They overlap like two pieces of film footage, one playing a millisecond behind the other. Nothing wrong with either but together, it's a mess. They spend the first day working on their separate games. On the second day, they are as bad as they've ever been before. Hyotei's sub-regulars are starting to laugh at Atobe. He can't concentrate in class. Thoughts of bedding Tezuka are far from his mind — he's starting to think that if tennis is this bad, sex would be even worse. Apparently, they can only create sparks from opposite sides of the court. Together, they are diabolical. This probably means that they'd only have good sex if each of them were dating other people. When he goes to bed that night, dismally resigned to dividing the court in two, Atobe decides that he is an utter failure. It's a feeling he won't abide, so he 'phones Tezuka up and shouts at him.

He goes to bed again, feeling like an utter failure with an anger management problem. Burrowing his head under the pillow, he makes a sound like dying camel. An utter failure of a dying camel, with an anger management problem.

 

_To: Atobe Keigo  
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
Subject: Tonight._

_I don't think there was any need for your behaviour tonight. We are both trying and I am frustrated as you are._

_Don't think that I haven't noticed that you're flirting with me. Sanada and Yukimura's situation works for them. I'm not going to sleep with you just to make the tennis better. You're bored by who I am and you're looking for a quick way to win this — I'm not a goal, I'm not a...method. I wish that you would stop it. I wish that you would find a reason to want me, another reason — so I could accept it, without feeling like you want me for_

 

Tezuka sighs and deletes the lot with snap of his finger. He sits with his chin propped in his hand, thinking. Then, because it's easier and because he's cowardly, he sends:

 

_To: Atobe Keigo  
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
Subject: Tonight._

_I don't think there was any need for your behaviour tonight. We are both trying and I am frustrated as you are._

_Let's meet up tomorrow at 2pm to talk further._

_Kunimitsu._

\---

Atobe gives Oshitari a withering look. “It is not worse than the time you and Gakuto played the Golden Pair.”

“The data does not lie.” He is smirking now and twirling noodles around between his chopsticks. They are having some sort of weekday brunch (Oshitari believes, to the contrary of the experts, that he may die if he goes longer than three hours without food and Atobe is too exhausted to argue with him) and Oshitari is ever so slightly crowing.

“What am I going to do? They're already laughing at me, Yuushi. I can't lose.”

“Is it too late to change sides?”

_“Yuushi.”_

“What? Tennis is more important to you than Tezuka, no?”

“Please don't put my pride and my libido up against each other. The results can only be disastrous.”

“Well, you solved my Gakuto problem by removing Gakuto. Which one of you is the problem — you or him?”

“Both of us. We're too similar. We go for everything at the same time and in the same way.”

“Stylistically-”

“Almost no difference. We're both all-round singles players. We have techniques to deal with all kinds of shots and we resent having to give them up.”

Oshitari pauses in flirting with a cute waitress to fill up their drinks, and thinks. Atobe can feel him thinking, that's the kind of thinking Oshitari does. He's going to make an excellent lawyer. “I see two solutions. One, you shag him senseless in the morning so he's too submissive to care about the court, and will respond happily to any 'naa, Kabaji?' behaviour you want to throw at him.”

Atobe gives him a look.

“Or, you want him play one of your regulars and get him to watch you playing one of your regulars. Each of you watch the other playing singles. You've done that for your opponents, why not each other? You might learn something.”

“Hmm. That's not a bad idea.”

“Of course it isn't. Tensai, remember?” Oshitari sticks out his tongue and narrows his eyes at Atobe's bowl. “Are you done with those?”

\---

When Atobe meets with Tezuka at 2pm, Tezuka is frostier than he's ever been before. There's a barrier wrapped over him; his eyes are not warm, his body is not responsive, and he uses fewer words than normal. He responds to Atobe's proposal with a thin nod and then looks out onto the court at the sub-regular that's been found. Who is sarcastically crossing himself. Tezuka's face says something like _Hyotei(!)_ but he says nothing, merely adjusts his wristband and walks out onto the court. Atobe takes his place by the side of the court, a cross look on his face, and watches. He realises early on that it's a mistake to have chosen a sub-regular, because Tezuka has only improved since he last saw him play. After the first game, Tezuka realises it, too, and drops his game down a notch. It's subtle, but Atobe notices it. He notices other things, too. He notices things he never did when they played; the lines of Tezuka's body as he lines up his serve, the movement as he pulls back and forward with the ball, waiting for it to come to him and then turning it into whatever he needs at the time. The Tezuka Zone is all the more impressive when you're not trying to overcome it. The way he moves his feet is pure poetry. And before he feels like too much of a romantic, Atobe gets up and has a word with Tezuka's opponent. He hasn't seen any of Tezuka's other moves; Tezuka simply hasn't needed them.

“Score is 6:1,” he says, bluntly. The sub-regular all but spits on him. “I want to see more. I'll take some games back. Fight me.”

Tezuka looks at him and suddenly, there's fire, at last. Atobe smirks. “I don't need to throw my coat in the air, Tezuka. Serve.”

After a gruelling forty minutes, Atobe has pulled back 5 games, because he is fresh and Tezuka has been playing longer and because Atobe has improved, too. In the final game, Tezuka shows his full potential and Atobe watches it, pinpoints it, finds a spot to focus on in the midst of the white light that descends when he plays. It dawns on him as he lunges into another jack-knife, that Tezuka is a defensive player. It's subtle; he's not defensive like Oishi is defensive, or like Oshitari was defensive with Gakuto. He is defensive in the sense that he is a submissive player. He plays tennis like he would martial arts; he lets the ball come to him, let's his opponent's strength come to him, and then he uses both against them. It is a talented mental game that it being played. Tezuka's Zone allows him to pull any ball back towards him. His Zero Shiki brings the ball back towards him; it does not attack the opponent the way Atobe's Rondo does. Even the Muga no Kyouchi he's only heard about focuses on Tezuka's own strength rather than any aggressive assault on the other player. Tezuka is in sport as he is in life; always chasing self-development, always bettering himself on a path towards self-actualization and being a good pillar or whatever it is that keeps him up at night these days. Tezuka could win many matches and he would not be a good player — a good person — if he won them in a bad way. Atobe has won many matches in bad ways and it never bothered him until Tezuka.

Where Tezuka pulls back, he rushes forward. There's the Rondo, of course (Tezuka has long gotten used to this one and now moves his hand out of the way without thinking), but also the Tannhauser, which he refuses to use in friendlies because frankly, it makes him feel like his whole body's in bits the next day. Both are aggressive, both flamboyant — they both involve hard, fast serves and spins that distract the opponent. He uses Insight and Koori no Sekai to pinpoint weakness and to exploit it, as brutally and as throughly as he can. In art as in life; Atobe scrutinizes people for flaws and works hard at them to reveal themselves to him. He pushes where others pull back. His flamboyancy distracts those only interested in his surface, and those who see underneath it can overcome him. Tezuka can overcome him. The passive player can beat the aggressive one, merely by turning his tricks to suit himself. Tezuka neatly avoids the Rondo and destroys Koori no Sekai with his Tezuka Zone. Tannhauser is too intensive to use often, if much at all. Tezuka's skill lies in deflecting what comes at him, pulling back for safety and manipulating assaults to advantage him. It's no wonder he's been turning Atobe down for weeks. Perhaps he hasn't yet worked out a way to deflect that sort of assault. It makes Atobe smile, the thought.

“A draw,” he says. “You must be exhausted.”

Tezuka says nothing, but leans with his hands on his knees and then sits on the court, his body gratefully limp. Atobe comes over and sits beside him, leaning back on his hands. The sky is very, very blue and he feels cheerful for the first time in days.

“Did it work?” Tezuka asks.

“Did what work?”

“Your plan to see more.”

“Yes,” Atobe says, carefully. “We play very differently.”

“Only on opposite sides of the court.”

“No — our styles are different. Yours is defensive, mine offensive. You turn other people's tennis around to your advantage, whereas I attempt to destroy other people with my tennis. I'm always on the attack, where you're...you overcome everything they throw at you. You have a move that answers everything. Your skill is in beating everything they have and then...they're defeated. My skill is in not giving them a chance to try.”

Tezuka absorbs this and nods, slowly. He had never given it much thought — playing an honorable game has always come naturally to him. “On the same side of the court, you don't give me much of a chance to try, either.”

“You're too slow.”

“Or you're too fast.”

They look at each other, competitive smiles on their faces. Atobe is the first to speak.

“We need to work out a strategy based on this. On you...defeating their onslaught, and me finishing them off, quickly. It'll be a long game, so if you can knock down their defenses one by one, I can finish it.”

“That makes sense,” Tezuka says. “We need to play more doubles matches. We need to know...what the other is doing, all of the time. We're too singles — we focus on ourselves too much. We need to learn the knack of concentrating on someone else.”

“You know, you could just have sex with me.”

Tezuka looks at Atobe, startled. Atobe sort of looks at himself, startled. He's sure that he wasn't intending to say that. He can't have been. It doesn't help that he wants to laugh at Tezuka's response, or that he does laugh. Once his mouth has been let off the leash, it's hard to get it back again.

“What has that got to do with tennis?”

Tezuka looks stung when he's laughed at — he isn't used to it and it's one of the wiggly social things he doesn't really understand, like high-fives and friendship pacts and saying nice things to a friend in a crisis.

“It has nothing to do with tennis,” Atobe says guiltily, trying to patch things up. “Forget about it.”

Tezuka blinks, and for a moment, he looks lost. Atobe wants to bottle it up and keep it. He's such an idiot. He has everything he's needed right there, right there, and he has to go and ruin it.

“Do you want to-”

Tezuka's question is suddenly unbearable. “No!” he says, for his own protection more than anything else, and Tezuka looks even more stung. Atobe sort of wishes he was dead, or in his father's office, anywhere but here.

There is a very long silence, wherein Atobe could swear that the prayer has been answered and he's actually dying.

“We could meet up tomorrow, then, and play some doubles.” Tezuka's voice has returned to steel.

“Fine. Mine, or yours?”

“Seigaku.”

“Fine.”

They depart and Atobe bashes his head against his door for a bit, because it might knock the tiny granules of remaining sense out of it — just in case he ever decides to do such a stupid thing as try to patch things up with Tezuka. It doesn't work, because three hours and two beers later, he's typing out an e-mail.

 

_To: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
From: Atobe Keigo  
Subject: Today._

_I'm sorry. I said a lot of stupid things and kept saying them because I wasn't sure how you'd take them. I'm not normally this crass (or this stupid). If you want to say no more about it, then I understand. If you want the truth of the matter then...you only need ask._

_I might be an idiot, but at least I'm an honest idiot._

_Alternatively, if this is making everything worse, this e-mail doesn't exist._

_See you tomorrow._

_Keigo._

_To: Atobe Keigo  
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
Subject: To an honest idiot._

_You are the most confusing person I have ever met._

_Kunimitsu._

_To: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
From: Atobe Keigo  
Subject: Re: To an honest idiot._

_Is that a compliment, ahhnn? Are you yoi'd by my confusing prowess?_

_Keigo._

_To: Atobe Keigo  
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
Subject: It is impossible to be impressed by confusion._

_Not particularly. Mostly, I'm just confused._

_Kunimitsu._

_To: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
From: Atobe Keigo  
Subject: Ore-sama is crushed._

_You have a cold, cold heart, Kunimitsu._

_Keigo._

_To: Atobe Keigo  
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
Subject: ..._

_No, just intolerance for stupidity._

_Kunimitsu._

_To: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
From: Atobe Keigo  
Subject: Ore-sama is dead._

_I am not stupid. I want you, after all._

_Keigo._

_To: Oshitari Yuushi  
From: Atobe Keigo  
Subject: FUCK. FUCK FUCK BOLLOCKING SHIT._

_A non-reply to 'I want you' isn't good, is it? Fuck this, I'm going to bed._

_Keigo._

_To: Atobe Keigo  
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
Subject: -_

_Maybe we can talk about that. I'd...like to talk about that._

_If you're being serious?_

_Kunimitsu._

 

He waits for half an hour, then an hour, and there is no response. Then, he shuts the computer down and goes to bed, wondering when everything in his life became so difficult.

Oishi and Eiji arrive late, for once, and Atobe's never been more enthusiastic about someone else's incompetence. He has time to look at Tezuka and say, meaningfully, in the sex voice that never, _never_ fails, “I got your e-mail.”

“What?” Tezuka says. Atobe resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Oh, right, yes.”

“Perhaps we can go out for dinner, and talk about it.” Atobe makes his eyes very intense so that it doesn't matter that Tezuka's got a few inches in height on him, because he's Atobe, and he's intense, and already, Tezuka is shifting backwards a bit.

“Perhaps after the match, we shouldn't-”

“Over-indulge?”

“Yes...”

“What sort of indulgence takes your fancy right now?”

“Your sort,” Tezuka says, with a tiny smirk of his own. It's the first chink of light through a seemingly impenetrable armour, and Atobe's smile goes up a million watts.

“My sort's a dangerous sort,” he says. “Full of getting careless and letting your guard down.”

“I think I can cope.”

“Are you sure, _Buchou_?”

“Don't do that.” Tezuka is looking at him with a strange expression. Atobe scrutinizes him, and, just as he's working out that it's arousal and not disapproval, Oishi's voice echoes from the other side of the court, and he nearly kicks something. It's not like he can send Oishi away, either, like he could one of his own regulars — and besides, Tezuka's already going over there, and _damn his stupid pillarness_.

Eiji is looking at Atobe like he doesn't trust him. This is fine. Atobe gives him a wave identical to Eiji's, the last time they met. Eiji breaks out into a laugh, looks at Tezuka and then wipes it off his face in the blink of an eye. Oishi sort of looks around, and Eiji giggles at him, so Oishi has to work hard not to smile along. It's nothing like Hyotei, nothing like Hyotei at all.

The match is superb, Atobe thinks, but he's biased and Oshitari says as much when he 'phones him outside the changing rooms. Tezuka and Oishi are talking about something mind-numbing, the kind of things Atobe least wants to talk about when he's adrenaline-fuelled and exhilarated from playing and winning.

“You're telling me you _trounced_ the GP?”

“Trounced is a subjective word. We won 6:4. How does that sound?”

“Unlikely. Are you sure? You sound like you're in the bar.”

“I'm not in the bar! Yuushi! We did it. We kicked doubles' ass. We're going to own them, Seiichi and that fucking-”

“Yes, yes, very good, very good. Do you want to come over? We could celebrate you as Japan's upcoming doubles pro. Bring Tezuka.”

“Ah, no, I have different plans...”

“Keigo...”

“Later, Yuushi.” Atobe is smirking as he flips the 'phone shut. Tezuka is heading his way, still half-waving to Oishi, and Atobe is smiling again. It is an exerted smile, a 'this is how I'd look after sex' smile, and Tezuka is starting to pay attention. They wander in together without exchanging a word, though Tezuka looks happier than he has in a while. They remove clothes and to cover up the bareness and the silence, Tezuka says, “that was excellent.”

“Yes,” Atobe says. “I knew we'd be fine.”

“I think we can win it.”

“I know we can.” Atobe strides closer to Tezuka, gradually, rotating his shoulders. He has a towel on but it doesn't cover much. Tezuka looks him in the eyes, though, and this pleases him. Tezuka goes into the shower first, and makes Atobe curve in a long arc to follow him, by which point he's naked and under the spray. His hair is very black and plastered to his neck, and his eyes look huge and young without his glasses on. Only without his clothes on is it obvious how tall he actually is; how his shoulders reach across and his back slopes, long down to his hips, pronounced and still a bit awkward. He is all angles, a growing triangle. Atobe stands behind him, and Tezuka's eyes run up the tiles, sensing the heat of his body through the water. He doesn't move, though he knows what Atobe wants. He'll do things on his terms. It isn't that he's afraid — it's that he cautious, and likes to be in control. It's that he won't make a move until he's sure where he'll land. It's that he wants to squash all of the ego out of Atobe, all of the stuff he finds ridiculously hot, and shouldn't. So when Atobe huffs a little and makes for another shower, Tezuka turns him around by the shoulder and the gesture is enough, Atobe backs up against the wall. For the first time, Tezuka feels in control of the situation.

He presses up against him and Atobe's eyes close, sensing the changing dynamic and running with it. “Tezuka,” he says, a purr, an echo of the court, an echo of a year ago. Tezuka wishes he could be so fluid, so trusting, as this body spread languid on the tiles.

“Is this what you want?” he says, voice dim under the spray, and Atobe nods, his eyes still closed. When he opens them, they are dark, almost unnatural. The wind howls outside. Atobe's eyes are like one of those days you never want to go outside in; like falling rain, like shards of sleet, all cold and painful and treacherous. All the days he's ever played Fuji, the weather was like the look in Atobe's eyes now. His body is warm and Tezuka moves closer, isn't sure how this is done but thinks he can work it out, cupping his face with one hand. The touch opens it all up, breaks the last straw, maybe, and it's on — they slam together like two dice thrown onto a board. He's kissed girls before, Tezuka, one girl. She was his next door neighbour and they were twelve. It was motionless and didn't excite him, not the way this wrecks him. It's too hot, too much, he can't breathe through it until he remembers his nose and then it's okay, okay, okay. Atobe doesn't taste like a woman, of cinnamon or lip-gloss or whatever it was she tasted like; he tastes like shower spray and sweat and faint blueberry PowerAde because he was drinking it, on the court. When Tezuka touches Atobe's upper lip with his tongue, he really tastes it, tastes it all, because Atobe's lips part and their tongues brush together and Tezuka has to come up for air, then, he just has to. Both their mouths are wet when they part and Atobe's eyes are blacker than ever. He breathes, hard, and looks at him. They look at each other.

“We can go back to Hyotei,” Atobe says. “You don't board here.”

“No,” Tezuka says, and then to clarify, “I don't.”

Atobe comes out of the shower and calls for a car, then gets back in to wash his hair. Tezuka is finishing and so he has time to think, as he's drying himself. There's not much to think about; he knows what he wants. He knows he's ready. He's not sure he wants a relationship out of Atobe — out of anyone, right now — but this is like tennis, like running down a hill until all the breath's spent from your lungs. It's right. He'd never been sure of Atobe until he'd worked out how to overcome him, beat him at his own game. There's only one question, sitting in his mind like a lazy troll, blocking the bridge ahead. When they're in the car, which is alarmingly plush for Tezuka's tastes, he leans over and asks it.

“Of course not,” Atobe says. “You know me better than that, now.”

“I didn't mean it-”

“As an accusation, I know. I know you, Tezuka. You're not that kind of person. I don't want you because we're playing doubles together, because I want to win. I want you because you're you. I've wanted you since last year but you're too stubborn to go out anywhere with me, so I relished playing with you. I thought it might change your mind.”

“It did.”

“Why do you want me, then?” Atobe's eyes are glittering with malice.

“You may be the person who understands me.”

Atobe looks at him, eyes turning serious, and nods. That means more to him than the way most people respond. But then, he knows Tezuka isn't the type to rattle off physical compliments one after another after another.

\---

Much later on, Atobe sits, in a pair of tracksuit bottoms, cursing at life. The small figure of Tezuka is long gone and Atobe doesn't know what to make of the evening. For two people so much in harmony, for two people who kicked doubles' ass , the whole sex part was obviously not meant to be. Obviously, they were meant for tennis and not for one another. They are either too similar, or too different, or too _something_ , and Atobe is tired of chasing down reason and attempting to understand why he and Tezuka don't fit together properly. Atobe has had incredible sex with girls he's not even really liked, before. He really likes Tezuka. Tezuka really likes him. They have, each, massive lust for life; the sort that keeps them driving towards their goals, the sort that keeps them going through the never-ending tie breaks in life. They are both stubborn as hell, relentless as air, massive like tidal waves when they wash through things and make everything their own. Perhaps they're all too much for one another. Atobe is horny and fed-up and only the first one counts for anything. He can't believe, two hours on, that the sex can have gone so wrong.

The moment when he knew it was over, that wasn't something he'd experienced in tennis. Even when he's down and out, Atobe always believes there's a chance, because that's what's kept him playing through the years, that self-belief. Only sex is different, sex with Tezuka, anyway. He'd gotten them both into the room after a few nervous goes at the door, and there'd been a silence as Tezuka politely sat down and studied his surroundings. Everything about the initial fire had given way to apprehension and propriety, and Atobe had given in to thinking nervous thoughts. He'd never done this before. _How_ is it done? _How_ is it initiated, what am I supposed to-, and Tezuka had simply said,

“You have a nice room.”

As if it needed saying, as if it were the most important thing in the world. Atobe was so annoyed by it, so annoyed by the simplicity and the politeness and the significance of the one, small sentence, he'd climbed up onto the bed and kissed him. It was a start. They were tentative and uneasy, neither prepared to jump to the obvious conclusion of removing clothes. It hadn't been overtly said, nothing was sure, nothing was certain. Atobe didn't think he could ever start asking the questions that would need asking. He sort of hoped they'd work themselves out, in time. When he moved over, stretched out, Tezuka sort of arranged himself awkwardly against him and they looked at each other. More kissing followed, more delaying time until the inevitable point where they'd have to discuss it, make it clear that they were on the same page. Suddenly, overwhelmed by the reality of it, Atobe realised that he had no idea what the hell he was doing. It was an unfamiliar feeling that wormed in his gut and the more Tezuka looked at him, with those eyes, the more out of his depth he felt. He removed his shirt with anger, trying to force the sensation of uselessness from his head, scrubbing fabric over his chest with the pain of wounded pride. Tezuka was finding the buttons on his own shirt, the room unbearably silent as each of them fell away, leaving skin that was paler than it had been in the shower. As if it were a game, Atobe had removed his trousers next, and watched Tezuka do the same. Clinically, they took turns and the kissing stopped until they were naked, and then it started again because there were no more clothes to remove. The room was very cold.

The worst part was when he had to shift, when Atobe had to shift and run a hand down between his legs to wring out the limp nervousness, to try and encourage something in his cock that wasn't whiteout fear. If Tezuka noticed, he didn't say anything. When Atobe returned his gaze to him, he was silent, his eyes dark and wide. It dawned on him, then, that he didn't know what he'd use for lube — had they agreed that he was on top? Had he totally missed that? - and he didn't know anything about technique, and this was _Tezuka_ , why hadn't he practised on someone who didn't mean as much? The kissing started again but the fire had gone, extinguished by nerves and inadeptness and really, Atobe should have known right then that nothing good was going to come of it. He leaned forward and Tezuka brushed a hand against his cock and he jumped, startled, and Tezuka realised that, as much as films lied, this was not what sex was supposed to be like. And Atobe, surprised, leaned down with his elbow, caught Tezuka's shoulder and his hair, producing a faint 'ow'. They looked at each other, united at last, but in disappointment and mutual resignation. They'd talked for a while, about nothing very much at all, and then Tezuka had been unable to stand it, and had left without much of a word. They'd meet in two days time for one last practice before the match at the weekend. They were back to tennis. That was it.

 

_To: Atobe Keigo  
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
Subject: -_

_Maybe it happens to everyone the first time — don't worry. We can, maybe try_

_To: Atobe Keigo  
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
Subject: -_

_Maybe it was just nerves and we should_

_To: Atobe Keigo  
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu  
Subject: -_

_I want to try it again._

\---

When they arrive at Hyotei, Sanada gives a dismissive snort. Yukimura cranes his neck up at the buildings, quirking an eyebrow.

“Style over substance?” he queries.

Sanada just looks at him. “Wait until you see Atobe. He's only increased in-”

“I am intrigued by anyone who riles you up this much, Genichirou.”

“That's cruel, Seiichi.”

“You love me.”

“Do you think they've practiced as much as we have?”

“Probably.” Yukimura says, grimly. “Tezuka takes things very seriously. And Atobe...as you've told me, he isn't the easiest person to play doubles with.”

“I fully expect a repeat of the American tournament performance.”

“Oh, don't tease me. That'd be too easy.”

“We'd get to go home early.”

“Genichirou, I do believe you're suggesting-”

“Sanada-san,” Atobe says, walking from the main entrance. The honorific is slightly sarcastic. “Yukimura-san.”

“Atobe-san,” Yukimura says, his eyes glittering as he reaches out a hand to Atobe, slanting them across to Sanada as if to say, 'very nice'. Sanada just glowers. “Good day for a match.”

“Yes,” Atobe says, nonchalantly. “I'm sure you'll be comfortable on our grounds.”

“They're certainly up to par with our own.” Sanada cuts in, voice low and deep, slightly territorial. Yukimura smirks.

“I should hope so,” Atobe says, in such a way that it sounds polite and not insulting. It's all Yukimura can do not to burst out laughing. The man is exactly as he'd imagined the boy would be.

“Has Tezuka arrived yet?”

“Yes, he was here about ten minutes ago. I believe he's checking the court over.”

“So,” Yukimura says, the big question. “Do you think you can win?”

Atobe grins, bearing teeth. “I always do.”

\---

He doesn't feel quite so confident when they're standing beside each other, he and Tezuka, in the aftermath of the Great Embarrassment of 2006. Tezuka has told him to put it to the back of his mind and concentrate on the tennis and when Tezuka is so forthright it's difficult to disobey him. So Atobe tries, and they find an oddly comfortable calm when the rackets are in their hands and their opponents stand behind the net. They knock fists together and Tezuka says something about having a good match and not letting it go to a tie-break, and Atobe laughs, the sound filling the court. They assume positions and Atobe takes a moment to survey the crowd - _his_ crowd — and throws the ball in the air. As it spins, there's a uproar; the game is on, and Hyotei rise to the challenge. Due to only making the quarter-finals, Hyotei have never participated in a National final. Most of the sub-regulars have never seen Rikkai players. There's a feeling of genuine excitement, of team spirit whipped up like a whirlwind. This might as well be life and death.

When he serves, the ball makes a thwack, a satisfying crack on impact, and soars over the net where it meets Sanada's racket. He returns it, not easily, but not struggling and it's a good start because Atobe taps it, just over the net. When it comes back, Yukimura having the reflexes of a cat, Tezuka backhands it to the baseline and it wins them their first point. As the game progresses, they're startlingly equal. Yukimura and Sanada take as many points as they lose, their harmony allowing them to cover most of the court and take advantage of awkward shots. Atobe and Tezuka still struggle to conceive of the court as a shared space and in the first game, they let a few points slip through their fingers. The crowd rises into a frenzy, and Sakaki-sensei crosses one leg over the other. Over the excited rhythm of the Hyotei chanting, Atobe can hear the discordant squeals of Seigaku. He remembers its authority, back in his match with Tezuka, and is glad it's on his side, now. The Rikkai squad are between the two in number, and they cheer loudly over the rest to make up for it. Atobe finds, as the games progress, that things become easier when he blocks out all the outside noise altogether. He has to close his eyes between points, between the change of server, but it's worth it because he finds the space inside his head, the space that makes it possible for him to disappear completely within tennis. Before he knows it, tennis is all there is, the stretch of limbs, the squashing of his toes inside his trainers as his wrist turns to tap the ball, to hear that wonderful crash of ball on strings. Sweat skids down his back and his eyes pinprick, focused only on the little yellow thing, the sound of Tezuka moving beside him.

Their play is not as segregated as they'd planned it. They move into harmony silently, with Tezuka pulling the ball back towards them with the Zone and Atobe using fast shots that refuse to take prisoners. Sanada is playing the defensive game and Yukimura takes Atobe on, matching brutality with brutality. They get into such a rally that Tezuka intervenes, a slippery ball comes his way, and he performs Zero Shiki just to get the point. Yukimura laughs, shakes water from his hair, nods to Atobe. Atobe grins, understands. It's impossible to see him as a true rival, when both understand tennis this way. Yukimura plays each game like it's his last, the way Atobe does. Both Sanada and Tezuka play games as stepping stones to something better, next time around. For Yukimura and Atobe, there is no next time — only now, only this, only working the body until the muscles ache with lactic acid and the heart rolls like a storm. They go fast, games like this, and the score reaches 6:6 in around an hour, twenty minutes. All of them are tiring, they've all crossed the threshold of weary and are into themselves, completely immersed in the game. The crowd has faded to a hum in the background. Between points, Tezuka and Atobe have taken to looking at each other, silent congratulations on getting this far. _We did it, partner_. Atobe never thought he'd find himself enjoying doubles. Tennis still has the ability to surprise him.

The last game is more intense than all of the rest put together; Yukimura shows his finest form and Atobe fears that what they have isn't enough. They gain a point when Tezuka follows through Atobe's Hametsu e no tango, which takes Sanada by surprise when he's on the defensive. This is particularly satisfying to Atobe, given the circumstances. Sanada retaliates, a rare moment of flaring fire, with an effective Fuu smash that crashes into the ground. Atobe remembers that one from Junior Senbatsu, and scowls. Tezuka looks at him, his eyes full of a plan, and Atobe remembers their idea. He lets Tezuka intervene, takes to the background and watches the Zone; watches what Tezuka is like when he's in motion. Yukimura knows that something has changed, but not what, and his aggressive style is slowly brought down by Tezuka's defenses. It is like watching a cat trying to fit itself through a small hole, with no room to manoeuvre. They exchange points until it's deuce, then advantage to them, and Atobe's turn to serve. The crowd are all up from the seats, then, watching what's like a dice rolling down a board, waiting to fall one way or another. Atobe steps up front, takes the ball and looks at his opponents, full of black fire and ready, ready to fight for the game. A quirk of his lips and he turns his eyes to Sanada, and he knows that Sanada knows what he's about to do.

He performs the Tannhauser and it's not enough time, not enough suspicion for either of them to do anything about it; both reach and it's not enough, and the ball flies past and that's it, it, it. The crowd goes nuts and Yukimura throws his head back and Atobe feels the wrench in his shoulder that's everything that's good, in that moment, that's alive and tennis and victory. He looks at Tezuka, and at Tezuka's eyes that are bright with euphoria and he's never felt better, not even when he thought Hyotei could go to Nationals, not even when he raised Tezuka's hand above the net, not even then. And so he does it again, because it feels like it's right — he walks to the net and they touch hands, he and Yukimura, he and Sanada, and then he raises Tezuka's fist. When he looks across the net, Yukimura does the same with Sanada's, and Atobe thinks that this is it, tennis is _it_.

They have the quickest shower imaginable, because Atobe's buzzing and all he wants to do is talk tennis, be tennis, for a bit longer. They exchange looks but they're not ones of nervousness or apprehension, not any more, because he can't stop grinning and it's infectious, Tezuka joins in. Sanada doesn't speak much but he's watching Yukimura, who has enjoyed himself more than he has in a while, so he's pleased inside. Yukimura busies himself baiting Atobe about his flashy moves and his flashy school, and Atobe is too ecstatic to care much about this plebe insulting him and so he just flicks water at him and looks back at Tezuka. Tezuka isn't thinking at all, which is how he knows that it was a good game. Suddenly, he understands why the Golden Pair are the Golden Pair. He understands Oishi, and Eiji, better than he ever has before. When they leave the showers, dressed and worn-out, he says goodbye to his opponents with genuine feeling, thinking that they have both taught him something special about the game.

\---

“You left some of your things in my room,” Atobe says, lazily, as they walk away.

“I'll collect them now,” Tezuka says, equally contented.

They take a slow stroll and for the first time, it just feels right, like friends, like unspoken harmony. Like it does with Yuushi, like it does with Oishi. Only, when the door closes behind them, it suddenly smooths into different. Atobe palms a hand on it and pushes it shut and then turns, and Tezuka is there, all brown eyes and urgency. He wraps a hand around the back of his neck and brings Atobe's mouth to his, and it's all Atobe can do to remain standing up. His pride kicks in and he kisses back, then, hard and furious and with Tezuka's face in his hands and they knock things over, trying to trample like a strange two-bodied creature across the room. Atobe palms a hand down to find the bed and he pulls Tezuka down onto it, stopping for a second before it's too much, and then it starts again. There's not much room to roll but they manage it, until Atobe's on top and looking into Tezuka's face and saying,

“What made you-”

“Shut up,” Tezuka says. “Just shut up, and do something. Do something.”

“Now you tell me,” Atobe quips, smirking. “I thought it'd take you fifty years to stop your thinking a-”

“Keigo,” Tezuka says, and it's a warning. “Now.”

If there's anything that riles Atobe up, it's being told what to do — because it irritates him, and when Tezuka does it, it's hot, and that's just as intolerable. So he snarls and pulls Tezuka's t-shirt off, scratching his skin as he does it because he's in the way, always in the way, the stupid bastard with his scrawny shoulderblades and his long arms and the legs that go on forever. Tezuka's hands are working on his trousers and he moves his knees out of them as Tezuka lifts his hips for his own. In a scrabble, with arms and legs going everywhere, they manage to shake all of the clothes onto the floor. Having had such a disaster last time around, Atobe learnt something, sent Yuushi to find some lube because Yuushi would know where to get it, having neither shame about his knowledge nor about where he shopped, and enough discretion not to ask questions. Or, enough psychic ability not to need to. One never knew with Yuushi but it was worth the alarm because he always came through, and tube in hand, Atobe felt like they could work it out. Lying out flat against Tezuka, they were both warm, warm from tennis and the shower, their angles sliding together.

“Bring your knee up,” he said, breathing on Tezuka's neck. Tezuka did so, bringing a pillow down for his neck, then resting on it so that his collarbone was there, all moist and smelling like aftershave. As he ran a hand along the back of his thigh, Atobe mouthed it, tasting tennis and Tezuka. “This is okay?” he asked, eyes finding Tezuka's.

“Yes,” Tezuka said. “Yes, this is okay. No more questions.”

There's no need to check, but Atobe still jumps when Tezuka puts his hand between his legs, and this makes Tezuka smirk. Atobe swats him on the thigh and brings his other leg up, resting between and finding a comfortable position. His hands are sticky and Tezuka makes guttural noises when he uses his fingers, letting his head fall back and making Atobe feel like he's the very king of the universe. Alexander the Great might have missed out on a few worlds left to conquer, he thinks, only he doesn't vocalize the thought because it'd come out in a series of 'unnff's and Atobe prides himself on not sounding like a moronic fool, even in bed. Only Tezuka is 'unnff'ing and, well, what's good for Tezuka is good for him. He's wriggling, and that makes Atobe groan himself, despite himself. He doesn't know when is enough but it doesn't matter, because Tezuka will tell him, tell him when he needs more — probably in that voice that, oh, fuck, like that.

Tezuka's eyes have turned very dark. His voice is very light. The contrast makes Atobe want to hump the duvet. Instead, he moves forward and feels Tezuka's fingers around his cock, a guidance, a clumsy, naïve guidance. The noise he makes when the fingers stroke around his head is echoed in Tezuka when he pushes inside, as both of their faces crumple and their mouths part, slack and needy without the words to say so. He's very still, at first, because it's the least he can do and if he moves, he'll come for sure — only Tezuka starts to take him in and it's so painfully, crushingly, wonderfully good that he has to stop and catch breath. And Tezuka laughs and so Atobe laughs, too, and it's a moment of brilliance because it makes him realise that nothing need be perfect, only real and genuine and that's enough. He slides full to the hilt and stretches himself out, looking right down into Tezuka's face, which is undone and young and carefree, the knots of discomfort working out. The movement is better, the slip and slide. Slowly, he begins to find a rhythm. Tezuka's hands are skittering on his shoulders, nails digging in, his hips starting to move. Atobe thinks he should have known, that neither of them can truly dominate. They're too equal. When he moves forward, Tezuka moves, too. Aggressive and defensive meet in the middle, two slamming die on the board. Tezuka takes him in, full and hot and wild, and takes what he needs, absorbs all of the passion and the urgency, then pushes it back. Reflects it. Lets it take him over. Neither of them are in control. They fuck each other, slowly unwinding and finding white-heat and glorious, glorious intensity.

Both of them are keening, now; Atobe with the pressure, the grip that's so much it almost hurts, and Tezuka with every bump, with every nudge right in the spot that makes his jaw work loose. They look at each other with eyes that are glazing over, sharing breath and heat and the tingling. There are no words — they need none. It is not perfect; limbs need adjusting and there's noises, but they smirk over them or they do not notice, because there's nothing else that really matters, other than this. Atobe has never felt so close to another human being as he does, slipping in and out of the person he's admired for a year and a half, the person who has taught him more about tennis and dignity and passion than anyone else before. It's rough and it's harder, harder than it is with women, and the promise of fingernails and biting kisses make him want this to be more, but it's too much to express in the middle of it so he just gnaws on Tezuka's collarbone, moving around his jaw in little nibbles. He finds his ear and Tezuka cries out, the sensitive spot just behind tingling. Atobe wants that, again and again, so he torments it with the tip of his tongue until Tezuka's arms are shaking and he swats him on the back, growls, “stop that, you bastard,” and it's so unlike him that he has to force himself not to think too hard on it.

The rhythm by the end feels like the last ten laps out of a hundred, like oblivion, like falling into the wind and into the earth. Everything else falls into the background and there is only the chase, the pulse and swell of muscles, the throbbing of head and ears, Atobe's feet slipping on the bedspread and the tug in the back of Tezuka's thighs. Tezuka is the first to speak, to try and utter something befitting of the moment, only he can't and so he just stutters, “fuck, I'm-” and it's fine because Atobe knows what it means, so he reaches down and moves Tezuka's hand away, takes his cock and strokes it in the exact rhythm that's there is his legs, in his hips, in his cock and in his balls. “This is what you feel like on me,” he wants to say, but he can't, can't find the words, and hopes Tezuka's knows. And as if he has, as if he understands, Tezuka unleashes a sound that Atobe knows he may never hear again, and his body is tight and taut and painfully tense, before it unwinds again and falls down to earth like a kite. It's all he needs, all Atobe needs, that call, that sight and his eyes pulse white, white, white and he shouts, once or twice, until his throat burns. He rushes forward onto his hands, his wrists ache, his mouth deep in collarbone and neck and Tezuka's hand on the small of his back. He doesn't surface, not for five minutes, not until he can speak again. Tezuka pats him, and they laugh, as much as their lungs will allow. Then, they look at each other, wet-faced with coiling hair. The kiss is exhausted but it is true, as true as two fists raised over one net.


End file.
